


The Space Between The Surge and the Fathomless Rocks Below

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, It's reading as suicidal ideation, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft To The Rescue, POV Greg Lestrade, Panic, Sensory seeking, but better to tag than not, which wasn't my intention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27928342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: In a time of difficulty, Greg is drawn back to the ocean and what he found there as a boy.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 38
Kudos: 137





	1. The Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> I've been told this is whumpier than I anticipated in the first chapter, so please treat yourself with care. After that it's smooth sailing (no pun intended, though it's true).
> 
> Disclaimer: Look, I researched. Heaps and heaps, actually, but there will be details that aren’t quite geographically right so let’s all agree this takes place in an alternate reality, one of the ones that’s almost-but-not-quite the same. That way we can concentrate on the important bits, like Greg and Mycroft’s souls finally recognising each other.
> 
> Thanks to Saratonin as always for your excellent comments, encouragement, and finding of typos.
> 
> Title from [ The Waves At Godrevy Lighthouse](https://writingatthebeachhut.org/2019/12/02/the-waves-at-godrevy-lighthouse-a-poem-by-helen-kay/), a poen by Helen Kay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the [beach](https://www.google.com/search?q=west+wittering+beach+images&rlz=1C1VFKB_enAU647AU647&sxsrf=ALeKk02GLAD_nB7joBmy_y-ccTl-zbfOxA:1601698864557&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjome-eyZfsAhVVaCsKHa9nCjcQ_AUoAXoECAsQAw&biw=1366&bih=625).

“Three years?” Greg repeated. Why did his voice sound so faint?

Sally nodded, her head tilted like it always did when she delivered bad news.

“Fuck,” Greg whispered, dropping into his chair, the usual creak like a gunshot with the extra force. It spun slightly, so Sally shifted in his vision, but it didn’t matter. His brain wasn’t in his office; the words floated through his mind, disconnecting him from all but disbelief and disappointment.

_Three years, three years, three years…_

“Fuck,” he said again, a sharp stab in his knee telling him he’d swung far enough to connect with his desk. Suddenly he looked up, searching for Sally, forgetting she wouldn’t be right in front of him. “Are you sure?”

She shrugged, but only just; the energy drained out as Greg watched the head tilt straighten, her face sombre. “Saunderson was in the courtroom. Manslaughter.”

That was basically done, then. Greg allowed his gaze to slide sideways, not quite focussing. It was so much effort, focussing on the world. And what was even the point? They’d worked their arses off on that case, not that it had seemed to need it. When the officers arrived at the last scene Thompson was still there and while he’d hired a lawyer, everything about the case seemed pretty standard. A triple murder wasn’t a case on which you dropped the ball though, and Greg crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s as always.

Yet the judge had listened to Thompson’s sob story about his childhood, accepted his wife’s plea for him to ‘be around for his children’ and given him a minimum sentence of three years. Jesus, he hadn’t even been convicted of _murder_ ; it was manslaughter. Bitterness pooled in Greg’s mouth and he swallowed against it, reminding himself this was how the system worked. It didn’t help like it usually did, easing the pressure from his body. All he could think was how soon this bastard would be getting out, and the weight settled heavier.

A year inside for each life he’d taken.

Less, once they took into account time already served and probably good behaviour.

What was the _fucking_ point?

“He’ll be monitored once he’s out.” Sally’s voice was distant, the tone flat. The fleeting realisation that Sally worked hard on this case too. She was somehow resigned to the outcome while he felt it jarring his every nerve as though priming him to run, as if he could outrun the heaviness pressing inexorably in on him from every side.

The vibration in his throat probably meant Greg replied, but he couldn’t be sure. His limbs were shaking, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his consciousness caught up with what his body was now ready to do. 

_Gotta get out of here._

Greg swallowed. Sally was talking again, but he didn’t recognise the words. They just swirled around his head, adding to the overwhelming sense of this _place_. The details were sliding, but he was suddenly very aware of the smell of cheap coffee and cracked leather, the clatter of people from outside, and how very small and close his office was.

_Gotta get out of here._

It took a few seconds to get his body moving, but when it did Greg stood, taking a couple of deep breaths to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over. Jelly legs solidified, his fingertips steady against the desk. Sally was still in his office, but her mouth wasn’t moving anymore and she looked strange. Concerned? Greg couldn’t tell, and it seemed irrelevant compared to the pounding certainty that he could not stay here.

“Need some air,” he managed.

Sally nodded, watching as Greg scrabbled in his desk, pulling out familiar shapes, stuffing them into his pockets. He had to stand in front of her for two carefully controlled long breaths before she stepped aside. Greg thought she might be watching him more intently than usual, but he wasn’t paying enough attention to really know, and by the time he stepped around her his eyes were already on the door.

The fresh air wasn’t enough.

Not fresh enough. Not sharp enough. Greg drew smoggy air into his lungs but no matter how deeply he inhaled, he still felt breathless. It wasn’t the air, he needed something else. Something more overwhelming, but in a good way.

The answer came to him fully formed, certainty blanketing the whirling thoughts in his mind.

I need to be overwhelmed.

_That place on the beach…_

The memory came flooding back, of salt and sand and the vast enormity of everything, dwarfing him almost into non-existence. Easing the _everything_ into nothing, so there was nothing on which to press.

_That’s what I need._

_I need to go there._

Greg was walking. He couldn’t remember starting, but he was still moving past people and shopfronts, weaving between shoppers as they meandered along. Two blinks later he swayed with the motion of the tube, wondering suddenly if he’d missed the transfer to GWR and out of London. Watching the map and repeating the announcements helped and he stumbled off at Paddington Station, panicked for a moment he’d fall between the train and the platform before he stepped over the gap.

Up the stairs, down the stairs, another ticket. Follow the signs to another platform. Short goals, each bringing him closer, making the almost unbearable closeness bearable as long as he was on his way. Another train and the sun jumped in the sky; he couldn’t remember the intervening hours, but the warmth was definitely coming from a different angle. Greg’s arms were heavy. Not that he wanted to raise his hand at all. The world was whizzing past his window and the motion of the train was comforting. Why would he want to move? Keeping his mind blank was far easier with the rhythm of the train behind him, focussing ahead. His body was heavy now, after the jittery energy of his first flight; perhaps the adrenaline had worn off. The hardest part was over now, and from somewhere enough peace came over him to accept the stillness. The group of kids at the other end of the carriage were boisterous, their loud chatter cutting through the sense of calm Greg drew from the train. He breathed deeply, reminding himself why he was here.

_Beach._

Stepping out at the station Greg took a moment to figure out where he was. It looked like every other station, but the air smelled wrong.

_Not the beach._

_I need the beach._

He blinked, the kids jostling him as they tried to pass him, standing in the doorway. Taxi. He needed a taxi.

“I need to go to the beach,” Greg told the taxi driver, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Anywhere in particular?” the cabbie asked.

“Waves, no people,” Greg told him tersely, his sudden proximity setting him on edge again.

_No more questions. Please. Take me there._

“Right you are,” came the easy answer.

_Thank God._

Greg watched the countryside flash past. At some point he opened the window, salt air flooding in. He breathed deeply, allowing it to soar around the tension in his body, the first prickles of his skin marking the beginning of his dissolution. It was the first fragment and despite the moving car he grew impatient to get there faster, his knee jiggling against his tightly knotted hands.

Finally, the car drew up in a field. The sky was clear, but there was no sand in sight, save the soil held together by flattened grass. When the engine stopped Greg could hear the booming of the waves, suddenly breath-takingly near.

_Yes._

“Beach is that way,” the cabbie said, jerking his thumb over the gentle rise of land to Greg’s left.

“Thank you,” Greg managed without looking at the amount due, throwing some bills over the front seat before he stumbled out, taking half a dozen steps before the ocean revealed itself, spreading out before his shaking hands. The car pulled away as he looked across the sand to the shifting waves. Light danced across the whitecaps, blue swirling into blue as he watched it shift. Somewhere he could hear the deep, regular booming of larger waves and he felt his soul heave in recognition.

_Ocean._

_This is it._

With a shockingly desperate sob, Greg started across the grass towards the water. The solid grass gave way to soft sand, his feet slipping, and he glanced along the vast expanse of shoreline. Two distant figures were all he could see but they were the size of ants and just as easy to ignore. His attention pulled back to the water, choppy in the protected bay, reaching halfway up the sand before it pulled back. He felt his lungs heave, a worry he hadn’t even considered receding with the next wave.

_Thank God it’s not low tide._

When he came close to the water’s edge, Greg stopped, ticking off his senses. Everything was winding together but he knew it needed to be everything. Overwhelming. Even a single thing missing would allow his mind to keep ticking and he needed to smother that ability, cloak it in so much he couldn’t think anymore. Stop it existing so the pressure would disappear, closing like a fist around empty air.

_Smell the air._

_Hear the waves._

_See the water ebb and flow._

_Taste the salt._

Something was missing. 

_Sand. I need to touch the sand._

Sitting down, fumbling fingers tugged at Greg’s shoelaces until they came loose. He hooked his fingers into his socks before stuffing them into his shoes and burying his feet in the sand. It was perfect, heavy and cool and rough. The groan driven from his throat was guttural, renting material from his very soul. His lungs heaved, the emotional toll of his day finally through him.

_Oh thank God._

Finally, the heavy sense of self he’d carried from London started to ease. Each wave rolled over it, eroding it as the water receded again, inexorably coming and going as steady as he remembered. Nothing he did would change it. He was insignificant here, his efforts ignored as the water swirled, sea birds screaming their derision from high above. Every sense he had told him where he was, and it was close but not quite enough. His brain was still functioning, running ideas, wondering, identifying Greg as a human, his form corporeal, able to be pushed against…

_No._

Greg closed his eyes, forsaking the visual for the heightened other senses. Waves crashed somewhere far away, the deep, regular booming easing the sharp edges from his soul, carrying them off piece by piece. As he dug his toes deeper, the sand rasped across bare skin, harsh but yielding to his pressure. His lungs pulled deep, just this side of panic; he needed more of the salty tang and no matter how deeply he breathed it was not quite enough. He needed to be filled up, the salt dissolving him. He needed to become part of the ocean.

_I need more._

When it didn’t work Greg opened his eyes, on the verge of panic again. _I need more._ He stared blankly at the ocean, watching it approach and recede several times before he accepted the answer. Despite his journey he was still too far away. Shedding his jacket was a given, as was tucking his phone and wallet into his shoes. Any more would have taken too long, and Greg didn’t hesitate to walk forward until the foamy wash rolled over his toes. The sand was soft here again, but wet; his heels sank as the water receded. It was better.

_Closer is better._

Greg walked forward until he had to brace against the push of the tide on his thighs. His fingers trailed in the water; he raised them to his lips, tasting the salt. Yes. This was what he needed. The smell was stronger here, but the taste…the taste elevated things.

Impulsively, Greg kicked his feet out, dropping to the sandy floor. The water splashed over his face; it wasn’t enough to submerge so he leaned back, holding his breath. The water was shockingly cold, and he opened his eyes, knowing it would sting, welcoming the burn. Another chunk gone, he thought, standing up. Water ran from his hair, and the weight of his wet clothes hung like the millstone he knew he deserved.

 _Bloody Sunday school,_ Greg thought, pushing the hair from his eyes. He drew a deep breath, and finally _finally_ he felt it.

_Immersion._

_Dissolution._

The regular waves continued; periodically Greg dipped his hair under the water, fresh rivulets carving through the salt drying on his face. It renewed the weight of his clothes, dragging him down. The energy it took to stand up, against both the waves and the weight was a penance he bore gladly, marks of the salt working into his being, beginning the work. The salt was in his eyes, his mouth; he could smell nothing else, and as the waves grew, picking him up with each rolling surge, Greg could concentrate on nothing but the movement of his body, carried by a force he could not control.

The beach was further away now, and Greg’s feet no longer touched the bottom. He rolled onto his back, legs and arms wide, hips high to float; swimming into shore could wait a little longer. He needed to stay here, to be overwhelmed by his surroundings, to be reminded how insignificant he actually was in this world. He felt insubstantial; the movement of water under him felt familiar, like the surge of his pulse in his veins. It was part of him, and finally _finally_ , he felt the force around him disintegrate. How can you press against something that doesn’t exist? He was part of the ocean, or it was part of him; either way he was elusive as the current and just as impossible to push against. It was intoxicating, freeing, and the idea of leaving barely brushed his consciousness before he released it back to the world. The sky was blue, though the pale clouds were washed with the delicate pink of a sunset Greg hadn’t noticed. He wondered how many colours he would see if he stayed here all night. Were the stars clearer against a sky so dark the blue no longer existed?

The waves crashed on, and Greg didn’t know how long it took before he recognised human voices over the reassuring regularity of the ocean. Frowning, he turned, raising his head to the shore. Several people stood side by side, though the salt in his eyes precluded him from focusing enough to identify them. As he wondered why they seemed so focused on him, a second regular thumping made its way into his consciousness. It was faster than the waves, and getting louder by the second. Greg snapped his head around, and it wasn’t until he recognised the red and white of a Coastguard helicopter he realised what was going on. The sense of one-ness with the ocean melted from him and he still felt lighter, though the pull of his wet clothes was now heavy against his muscles.

_Jesus, I’m being rescued._

Greg tread water, knowing there was no point in arguing. When the wash from the rotors became too much Greg closed his eyes. The sound reverberated through him, jolting every cell with its regular thumping. A hand grabbed his arm, and he started, opening his eyes.

A face stared back at him.

The diver made an ‘okay’ sign with his hands, a questioning look requiring an answer.

Greg copied him, wondering if he was about to be airlifted somewhere.

He was, but not in the way he’d imagined.

The helicopter sent down a winch, and the diver secured Greg in the harness. It picked him up, only high enough to skim over the water before lowering him onto the beach. Two of the people – paramedics, Greg realised – arrived first, ignoring his protests and wrapping him in a reflective blanket. One fitted oxygen over his face, the other clipped something to his finger; it was bewildering until Greg looked up and linked eyes with the single other person on the beach. He looked completely incongruous in his perfect suit, and Greg would wager the sand would never quite come out of the no doubt handmade shoes, but it was the expression on Mycroft Holmes’ face that arrested whatever Greg would have said.

He’d seen that expression before.

Mass accidents held both ends of the spectrum; the grief of confirming your loved one was gone, or the intense relief of finding they survived. If Greg didn’t know better, he’d say Mycroft was firmly in the second category. His shoulders still bore tension, but his face clearly said, _Thank God you’re alive._

_What…_

Belatedly, Greg tuned into what the paramedics were saying. Something about hypothermia, lack of response, possible head injury, hospital…

“No,” Greg said. There was no way he was going to hospital. He tried to pull at the thing on his finger, cursing the clumsy hands that refused to do what he asked. His waving arms knocked the oxygen from his face, and he tried to stand up. His knees gave way and finally he realised he was shivering. Calmly the paramedics still restraining him, Greg locked eyes with Mycroft again.

“Please, Mycroft,” he whispered, knowing Mycroft would get the message even across the sand.

When there was no response Greg sagged, lowering his head. His body was hardly his own; he felt clumsy and awkward, everything numb. Things would come flooding back as they always did, and Greg felt tears prick behind his eyes in frustration. Whatever the reason for Mycroft coming out here, he was deaf to Greg’s plea. He’d have to just endure the hospital, then he supposed he’d be shipped back to London to explain himself to the Chief Superintendent. Now that would be a fun conversation.

“You may release him into my care.” Mycroft’s voice cut through Greg’s swirl of misery, taking a long time to resolve into a comprehensible message in his mind.

“Pretty sure he should get to a hospital,” one of the paramedics said doubtfully.

“My assistant will sign any paperwork required to absolve you of responsibility,” Mycroft replied. “Rest assured I have suitable medical care and accommodation awaiting us.”

One of the paramedics looked at the other, who shrugged. They collected their equipment and helped Greg stand. He was steady enough if he concentrated, though the trek across the soft sand at the top of the beach would be more difficult than he could probably manage on his own.

“Please allow me,” Mycroft said, stepping closer.

“I’m pretty wet,” Greg said, the words feeling stupid, all things considered.

“It is of no matter,” Mycroft replied, looping Greg’s arm over his shoulders. He was watching Greg’s feet as they walked slowly over the sand. _Avoiding my eyes._ “Your shoes and other personal items are secured.”

“Do you really have medical care and accommodation down here?” Greg asked. The distance was further than he remembered and he was grateful for Mycroft’s support. It was less weird than he would have thought, though later he would probably cringe at how terribly he was surely damaging Mycroft’s suit.

“I have accommodation,” Mycroft replied evasively. “And training from when I was working more…independently.”

“Wait, you’re the medical care?” Greg asked. “I thought you meant a private nurse or something.”

“An intentionally misleading comment,” Mycroft admitted. “But necessary to keep you out of hospital.”

“Okay,” Greg agreed. He was incredibly tired, and the cold had seeped deeper now, his shivering exacerbated by the absence of the paramedics’ blanket. When they finally got to the car, Anthea was waiting. She had an enormous blanket and Greg stepped into it gratefully. Heat immediately spread through his shoulders; it was just this side of painful but he pulled the fabric tighter.

“Wait, is this heated?” he asked.

“It is,” Mycroft replied, one hand still on Greg’s shoulder as he guided Greg to slide into the backseat. “Please, be seated while I speak with Anthea.”

Greg did as he was told, the thermal blanket wrapping him from head to knees. The warmth sank deeper into his muscles and when the shivering stopped he sighed. What was Mycroft talking to Anthea about? It didn’t really matter. Sleep tugged at Greg, but he resisted, the sound of the car doors opening jolting him to full wakefulness.

Mycroft sat beside him. Anthea…did not? He hadn’t seen another car, though. Mycroft’s eyes met his for a second, though not enough to gauge any kind of emotional status; he instead rapped on the privacy screen, and the car rolled forward.

“Anthea is in the front,” Mycroft murmured. “The privacy screen is up, please speak freely.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He couldn’t think of anything he needed to know enough to bother speaking, so instead he leaned his head back and dozed until the car stopped. It only felt like a few minutes but could have been longer; either way, darkness had fallen completely when they stepped out at the end of a laneway.


	2. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the [house](https://www.baileys.uk.com/holiday-lettings/aura-favoni-west-wittering).

“Woah,” Greg breathed.

The house was enormous, far too big for the…four of them? He wasn’t sure what was happening with Anthea and the driver but there would definitely be space if they were all staying here. It was white, the inside lights glowing softly under what Greg would bet was a thatched roof. Small windows and a garden walking the fine line between ‘cared for’ and ‘beautifully overgrown’ curled around the building, offering privacy for gentle walks and picnics. Greg wondered if there was a conservatory out the back, and the idea of a long lazy breakfast rose in his mind, but he pressed it away. Now was hardly the time.

“Please,” Mycroft murmured, taking Greg’s elbow. “Thank you, Anthea, we will be in touch.”

The car slid away as Mycroft opened the gate, steering Greg through towards the front door. The bricks were cold on his bare feet, soft moss tickling as he walked. It was such an unexpected sensation Greg couldn’t quite manage asking until they were standing on the porch.

“Is this whole place…who’s staying here?” Greg asked.

“You and I,” Mycroft replied. He took a key from his pocket, opening the door and guiding Greg inside. It was the cool-ish of a house still warming up, and the air was still but fresh. Carpet was scratchy but a welcome relief from the bricks outside.

“This whole place is for the two of us?” Greg repeated.

Mycroft closed and locked the front door before turning to Greg. “At short notice, there was not a wealth of options,” Mycroft replied. “Comfort and privacy were more important considerations, and so this property was best suited to our needs.”

“Okay,” Greg said faintly. He thought the extent of Mycroft’s reach was something that wouldn’t surprise him any longer, but now all this was raising the bar even further.

_Why would he…_

“Our primary concern must be getting you warm,” Mycroft said, shucking his wet jacket and arranging it on the hanger behind the door, interrupting the beginning of Greg’s thought. “A bath has been drawn for you upstairs.”

“I’m not that cold anymore,” Greg protested, though he complied when Mycroft encouraged him up the stairs.

“That blanket will cease to be warmed soon,” Mycroft said. “It is intended for short term use only.”

The bathroom was tiny. It contained a stand-alone bath, temptingly full of hot water and bubbles, and a toilet, and perhaps a square foot of floor space.

“I intend to make tea,” Mycroft said, waving one arm at the bathroom. “You may leave your wet clothes on the floor for the time being.”

Greg nodded. The bath was pretty tempting, and it was clear he didn’t have a lot of say in what was happening here. He glanced at Mycroft, unsure if he was planning on staying to make sure Greg actually got in, but as soon as Greg reached for the buttons of his shirt, Mycroft turned, striding down the hall towards the stairs. That was weird. Greg peeled the wet fabric from his body, the cool air sucking heat from his clammy skin again and bringing back the shivers. He lowered himself into the bath, groaning at the water temperature. If Anthea was responsible for this she was a freaking genius, he thought to himself. The bath was slightly too short; his knees poked out above the bubbles, and it was already perilously full, but otherwise it was perfect. The bubbles smelled good, though Greg couldn’t identify the scent. His mind was still more or less blank, which was fine. The longer he could remain in this limbo the better. He soaked for a bit before a carefully cleared throat announced Mycroft’s return.

“Come in,” Greg said, smiling at the diplomacy.

Mycroft entered with a single mug of tea, handing it to Greg with a serious expression before folding his hands before him.

“Where’s yours?” Greg asked.

“Downstairs,” Mycroft replied. “I was not sure you wanted the company.”

Greg stared at him. It was the first time he’d had a say in what was happening since Mycroft appeared at the beach. Or was it? Mycroft insisted he come here instead of the hospital because Greg asked it of him. And having someone in charge of the decisions allowed him to concentrate on difficult things like climbing the stairs. The question rose again, and Greg took a second to acknowledge it before he answered. 

_Why is he doing all this?_

He wouldn’t find out unless they spoke. Besides that, though, when he considered Mycroft’s unspoken question, the answer was simple.

_Do you want Mycroft’s company?_

“I would actually,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, the surprise colouring his voice before he controlled it. “I will return momentarily.”

The tea was strong and sweet, exactly how Greg liked it and it was half gone by the time Mycroft returned. He rested it on the fancy wooden-bar-thing that spanned the width of the bath. Convenient, that was.

“Hang on, how many cups of tea does one person need?” Greg asked, noting immediately Mycroft carrying a pair of mugs and leaning carefully down once again.

“I suspected you might wish for another,” Mycroft replied. He laid the second mug beside the first. “You are under no obligation to drink it, of course.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, feeling like an ungrateful git for poking fun. He watched Mycroft settle himself on the closed lid of the toilet. Whatever he’d thought his day would be like when he got up this morning, this was about as far away as he could have imagined. Before he could think it through, he blurted, “So, um, are we going to talk about the beach, or do the stiff upper lip thing and never bring it up again?”

Mycroft looked at him gravely over his tea. “That is entirely up to you,” he said quietly.

Greg nodded, surprised at the control Mycroft was still offering. “I would have thought you had questions,” he said tentatively, suddenly less sure of this conversation.

“I do,” Mycroft replied, but offered nothing further.

“And you’re okay if I don’t want to answer them?” Greg said, trying to understand where Mycroft was coming from.

“You clearly had a reason for your actions,” Mycroft said. “If you wish me to ask questions, I shall. Tonight, or at another time. I shall not impose my own curiosity on you, however. You are an independent agent, Gregory. You are not bound to satisfy my curiosity.”

Greg swallowed, grateful for the tea. Hearing Mycroft say both _Gregory_ and _satisfy_ had quite an impact. “Thanks,” he said, the word small after Mycroft’s answer.

They sat in silence a while, Greg working his way through both cups of tea. The warmth inside and out made him feel better, though he still carefully avoided analysing his motives earlier today. As he rested the second empty mug on the expanse of wood, he started thinking about what would happen when he got out of the bath. There were clearly several bedrooms here, so there was no awkward ‘we’ll have to share a single bed’ thing happening. But the idea of sleeping entirely alone was deeply depressing, at the same time. Separating that from what he craved this afternoon was difficult, so he told himself it was natural to want someone close in an unfamiliar house after the emotionally fraught day he’d experienced.

But how on earth to bring that up? And with Mycroft, of all people?

“Your bathwater will be getting cold,” Mycroft said quietly, his words cutting into Greg’s thoughts. “Do you have an idea of what you would like to do once you are dressed?”

Greg blinked at him. “Not really,” he said, unprepared to commit to anything. The idea of making a choice was overwhelming, and not in the good way. It had been unexpectedly calming to have someone make decisions, and Mycroft continuing that would be ideal.

_Again, how do you put that into words without…_

“Perhaps I might suggest an early night,” Mycroft said. “After something to eat?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, grateful for the direction. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Mycroft nodded and picked up Greg’s empty mugs. “The towels in here are clean,” he said. He hesitated, pink colouring his cheeks as he added, “I took the liberty of ensuring clean clothing for you. I hope it is acceptable.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Greg said. He hadn’t even considered that his only clothes here were soaked with seawater in a sad little pile on the bathroom floor. “I mean…thanks.”

“First door on the right,” Mycroft said, hooking one long finger through all three mugs before closing the door after himself.

Greg nodded again, enjoying the final whisper of heat before he pulled the plug. The bubbles had lasted; he had to strip long swathes off his arms and legs before stepping out and grabbing a towel. They were huge, easily covering him as he tiptoed out of the bathroom. He’d poked his head out first, but based on what the house looked like, it was probably so solidly build he wouldn’t hear Mycroft anyway. The first door on the right led to a tiny bedroom with twin beds. The bed closest to the door had a pile of clothes by the pillow, so Greg figured this must be the place. He closed the door, shivering a little but conscious it was only the comparatively cool air against his skin and not the deep chill he’d brought out of the ocean with him.

How far away that seemed, now.

Greg found pants, socks, pyjamas, and a dressing-gown, and he donned them all without complaint. Of course, Mycroft knew his sizes. As far as he could tell they were all brand new and a hell of a lot more expensive than even his nicest suit. He’d be warm, that was for sure. Ducking back into the bathroom, Greg threw his wet clothes into the tub and mopped up the wet spot they’d left on the floor. He hung his towel, ran his fingers through his hair and used the toilet; when he’d washed and dried his hands twice, he had to admit there was no other reason to stop him going downstairs to meet Mycroft. Being nervous was ridiculous, but now that they’d somewhat established ground rules (no talking about earlier), what on earth would they actually talk about? The question of _why_ was now rolling gently through Greg’s mind, soft and unthreatening. It still managed to set him a little on edge though, and he had to take a deep breath before stepping out of the bathroom.

He padded down the stairs, self-conscious in his nightwear. Mycroft would be wearing a three-piece suit, for heaven’s sake, and he’d be sitting there in his dressing-gown. As if there wasn’t enough weirdness going on already. Greg hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Ducking his head left he found a sitting room; despite the lamps lit, it was empty. He turned right instead, stepping off the carpet onto the hard flagstones of the kitchen.

When he glimpsed Mycroft, Greg stopped dead. His jaw loosened and he consciously clenched it, not wanting his mouth to drop open like some terrible comedic actor. Mycroft was standing at the hob, stirring something. He glanced up, meeting Greg’s eyes and something of Greg’s surprise must have shown on his face.

“I thought you might be more comfortable were we attired more similarly,” he said, running his free hand down the front of his dressing gown. “I hope that was an accurate prediction?”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. The pale blue was an excellent colour on Mycroft; why didn’t he wear it more often? And Jesus, even if his pyjamas were properly collared, they were a hell of a lot more lenient than those suits. His neck was far longer and paler than Greg remembered, and Greg was entirely unprepared for the glimpse of collarbone as Mycroft had turned to speak with him.

This was why he’d procrastinated so much in the bathroom. Because now he would have to deal with _that_ again, only they weren’t at a crime scene or sitting in a public restaurant. They were standing in a private house, alone, in their dressing gowns.

With no reason to continue to avoid certain conversations. Or actions. It was confronting, realising he had nothing else behind which to hide, and Greg had to take a second to steady his brain.

“What are you making?” Greg managed, dropping into the nearest chair.

“Porridge,” Mycroft replied. “There are a range of other options if you would prefer.”

“Porridge is perfect,” Greg said, not realising it was true until he’d said it. He sat quietly watching Mycroft move around the kitchen, finding crockery and cutlery and a pot of honey, all of which were set on the enormous kitchen table. Despite the large space the quiet felt intimate. Perhaps it was knowing there was only the two of them in the house. Greg didn’t analyse it too much, not really prepared for what he might find. He allowed it to calm his mind instead, surprised to find how easily it slid over the jagged edges of his anxiety, smoothing them off without effort.

When Mycroft set two bowls on the table and waved one hand, inviting Greg to join him, Greg nodded and stood, taking a seat and waiting while Mycroft set the saucepan to soak in the sink.

“After you,” Greg said, offering the honey.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft replied.

Greg raised an eyebrow but added a generous swirl to his, watching it soften with the heat and slide across the surface of the oats.

“My dad used to make us porridge on the weekends,” Greg said, the memory rushing powerfully back with the scent of the warmed honey. He glanced up, unsure if he should be sharing this memory. Were they going to have personal conversations, or make small talk? Mycroft’s reaction would surely tell him. “Mum hated how much honey he’d let us add.”

Mycroft nodded, meeting Greg’s eyes. “Sherlock was fonder of the honey than the bees to begin with,” he said. “Until the gardener helped him understand their social structure, and then we didn’t see him for hours at a time.”

Greg nodded, relief easing his tongue. “I can definitely see that,” he murmured, picturing a young, skinny boy with a mop of black curls bent over a beehive.

The silence descended again and Greg found himself relaxing, both with the warm, easy food and the lack of pressing conversation. Mycroft had evidently been serious when he said he wasn’t going to push Greg to talk about what happened earlier today; he seemed entirely content to sit and eat, their occasional comments about the food or some other long memory acknowledged equally without pushing for more.

It was comfortable.

When their bowls were empty, Greg could feel tiredness tugging at his eyes and shoulders. It had been a long day and though he had no idea of the actual time, it felt as though he’d been up hours after his usual bedtime. Mycroft cleared the table and Greg rose, feeling unsure what would come next.

“Thanks,” he said as Mycroft turned back from the sink. “For the food, and the…and everything.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes skittering away, and Greg realised something he hadn’t considered earlier. As much as he was relieved he didn’t have to talk about the earlier part of his day, he also wasn’t asking Mycroft about why he was at the beach. Or why he’d hired this house. Or done…any of what he had done today.

And if he pressed Greg for answers, Greg might do the same.

_So it’s about maintaining the status quo, then._

“Might I suggest it is time to retire?” Mycroft said. “The day has been somewhat unusual.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He frowned. “What about tomorrow?”

“In what respect?” Mycroft asked.

“In all respects,” Greg replied. “Work, we’re in this house and the other side of the country…”

“All has been considered,” Mycroft said. “You have several days’ personal leave, the cottage is rented indefinitely, and rest assured I will hardly be leaving you stranded here.”

“Right,” Greg whispered. “Well, in that case I should brush my teeth.”

“You will find fresh toiletries in the powder room beside the bathroom,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay,” Greg said. “Um, I guess I’m sleeping in the bedroom I found my clothes in?”

“If that is acceptable,” Mycroft replied. There was a tiny hesitation before he added, “That room is warmest and it faces east so the sunrise is visible, should you wish to see it.”

“Oh,” Greg whispered. There was more thought gone into that than he’d realised. “Um, and where…where will you be sleeping?”

“Up the stairs, first door on the left,” Mycroft replied. The pause was long enough Greg felt his lungs burning; he hadn’t even realised he was holding his breath until Mycroft spoke again. “Good night, Gregory.”

“’Night, Mycroft,” Greg said. He wanted to say something else, but couldn’t think of how to phrase it, so turned to go upstairs.

Ablutions completed, Greg slid into bed, taking a moment to get himself settled before trying to adjust to the unfamiliar room. The bedroom was decidedly warmer than downstairs – Greg wondered if there was separate heating for the bedrooms? – and there were extra blankets on the second twin bed. It was comfortable, of course, and there were no neighbours walking around upstairs like in his flat, but he still felt strange. Greg knew he should be ready to drift off immediately, but instead he felt restless. His mind was working, but it wasn’t the racing semi-panic he was used to. It was slower but deep, and much as he tried, his body wouldn’t settle comfortably for more than a few minutes.

As he stared at the ceiling, trying to pin down what it was circumnavigating his brain and keeping him up, Greg heard the rush of water that meant someone was in the bathroom upstairs. His mind’s eye immediately provided an image of Mycroft, his blue dressing gown wrapped around his middle as he brushed his teeth. He was sleeping in the far bedroom, he’d said. Greg hadn’t snooped in the other bedrooms upstairs and he wondered what it would be like. Had Mycroft chosen another small room with twin beds, or did he avail himself of the master bedroom?

Frustrated, Greg sat up, flicking on the lamp and hugging his knees. Thinking about Mycroft’s bedtime routine wasn’t the thing keeping him awake, but it certainly wasn’t helping. Greg habitually ignored the kind of introspection that might lead to him identifying these details, and he was both out of practice and not entirely comfortable with the process. With a frustrated noise, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his drawn-up knees, hoping to remember enough breathing patterns to calm himself to sleep, at least.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet from the doorway, but it still made Greg start. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine,” Greg said, his eyes having flown open at the sound. They closed again almost immediately as his voice cracked on the ‘fine’, the blatant lie clear.

_Fuck._

Mycroft was still there, Greg could sense it; he wouldn’t leave without saying something, anyway. Greg breathed carefully, waiting for whatever it was Mycroft was going to say. Panic surfaced, but it was brief as Greg exhaled, blowing it away. He would have bet on Mycroft bidding him a goodnight, even after the air of intimacy downstairs might have tempted a more personal conversation. But Mycroft made it clear he was following Greg’s lead, and Greg had allowed the moments to slip by.

Right now, something uncomfortably close to regret circled his heart as he waited for Mycroft to speak.

“You haven’t asked how I knew where you were today.”

Greg’s breath caught in his throat. This was not the polite deference he would have expected, permitting Greg the lie they both knew lay between them. No, this was an invitation to a potentially deep and personal conversation, and about the furthest thing Greg expected.

 _But not the furthest thing I would have wished for_. Carefully, he lifted his head, opening his eyes to look at Mycroft.

“No,” Greg said, heart pounding as he accepted the conversational offer. “I guess I didn’t really think about it.” Mycroft nodded, and though he didn’t look puzzled, there was a cautious air of ‘I don’t understand’ still around him. Greg almost grinned, the smile flaring small and brief. “You really think I still try to figure you out, Mycroft?”

The answering expression was definitely more openly confused this time. Greg sighed, finally recognising Mycroft’s hesitance for what it was.

_He wants me to say it._

“Why don’t you grab your stuff and sleep in here?” Greg said, waving his arm at the other bed. “We can talk and be comfortable, at least.”

The guarded expression was back, and Greg questioned his earlier flash of certainty, bracing for Mycroft to flee. Instead he nodded once, mouth tight before disappearing. Greg leaned over – the beds were very close in the small room – and picked up the pile of extra blankets, dropping them on the floor in-between the bed heads. At least they’d be accessible if either of them got cold.


	3. The Man

Mycroft returned holding a pillow and an eye mask, resolutely not meeting Greg’s eyes as he walked around the end of the bed. Greg averted his eyes as Mycroft pulled the cord of his dressing gown loose, allowing him the small privacy of settling into bed without an audience. When he cleared his throat, Greg risked a glance over. Mycroft had smoothed the blanket over his waist, fingers still pressing into the fabric, reminding Greg of a nervous small child. His heart took a second to catch up, but then Mycroft spoke and he was drawn into the conversation exactly where they’d left off.

“You said you no longer attempt to ‘figure me out,’” Mycroft said, the air quotes audible around Greg’s words.

“I don’t,” Greg said, shifting a little so he could face Mycroft. As strange as this situation was, the conversation felt like it matched somehow. They’d never really strayed into personal territory before today. Not deliberately, at least. Sometimes there was a comment, an observation or memory Greg would have liked to hear more about, but he never asked and Mycroft never expanded on it. He knew he did the same, following Mycroft’s lead and offering a smile or lame joke when he would otherwise have continued a conversation.

It had never felt right before this night.

If there was ever a time for them to have a personal conversation, this would be it, the back of Greg’s brain reminded him as he waited for Mycroft to continue the conversation. Even if you ignored the entire rest of the day, they were sitting in beds beside each other, close enough to reach out and touch, not another soul in the house and from what Greg could figure, no plans for at least another day. Their excuses had been stripped away, and if they were ever going to be honest and serious, this was the time. Greg wondered if Mycroft realised it too. Was that why he’d made that comment earlier? A slight invitation to begin this conversation, while still allowing Greg to ignore it with grace if necessary.

_He wasn’t sure, either._

“That implies you once did,” Mycroft said finally.

Greg shrugged. It was freeing, the idea of just…answering questions honestly. Seeing what happened. Accepting the consequences and knowing that regardless, it would be a step forward out of the stasis he’d held onto for a long, long time. He had never considered it a constraint, but relief flowed, nevertheless.

“I did,” Greg replied. “When we first met, it was like magic. You’d call for a car, and it would come two minutes later. You’d know if I hadn’t eaten and have food waiting if we met at your club.” He shrugged again. How simple it was to let the words out. “It was a bit weird until I realised you used your powers for good.”

“Used my powers for good?” Mycroft repeated.

Greg wondered if the faint smile on his face was visible in the lamplight. “You were protecting your brother. And whatever stuff you worked out, or found out about me, it was never…weaponised.”

“I should think not,” Mycroft murmured. And then, “Weaponised?”

Greg shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Mycroft replied. He paused. “So, you are not interested in knowing how I was aware of your location today.”

Greg looked at him. He knew he was about to take the conversation down a deeper path, and Mycroft may or may not chose to follow. Privately, he acknowledged how much he wanted Mycroft to follow him before he spoke. “I’m more interested in the why than the how,” he said finally, his voice lower than he’d planned.

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. He smoothed his hands over the turned down edge of the blanket, watching their progress; Greg found himself following the slow movement, wondering what Mycroft would say. He wasn’t anxious about it as he thought he might be; the waiting was gentle, and he was surprised how much he understood. That Mycroft was considering how to explain, not how to defer their conversation.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, “and I suggest this with no expectation, we might come to a reciprocal agreement.”

Greg nodded in understanding, his heart fluttering as they eased further into each other’s confidence. “Motive for motive?” he checked.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “While I would be prepared to answer your question either way, I must admit I had not anticipated the opportunity for us to speak so candidly and I am…curious.”

The words untangled themselves slowly, until Greg found himself smiling at Mycroft. “You really, really want to know, don’t you?” he asked.

“I do,” Mycroft admitted, his eyes meeting Greg’s almost defiantly.

“And you’ve had all this time, and you specifically told me you wouldn’t ask,” Greg said, taking the opportunity. “Why was that?”

“As I stated, you are not bound to satisfy my curiosity,” Mycroft replied. “That is for me to manage, not you to assuage.”

Greg nodded. He could understand that. “Was there any other reason?” he asked, instinct telling him that while Mycroft was telling the truth, he was not being entirely honest. “That you didn’t want to ask, I mean.”

Mycroft shot him an amused look. “You are exceptionally skilled, Detective Inspector,” he murmured. The non-answer was very Mycroft, the flash of humour deflecting the truth concealed behind his words.

“I am,” Greg replied, following Mycroft’s unspoken plea not to follow that path. “You don’t have to answer. I don’t mind.” He grinned. “I just wanted you to know that I know there’s more to it.”

“How observant,” Mycroft said, and there was a thread of something Greg didn’t recognise bound up with the wry tone. He drew a deep breath. “I did consider the possibility that you would be less amenable to continue our association if you considered my questions…impertinent.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Can’t remember the last time I thought someone was impertinent,” he said with a grin. “But I understand what you mean.”

The silence around them settled, allowing a moment of mutual acknowledgement. The conversation was going to be weighty but the atmosphere had drawn in around them, rather than falling between their beds. Greg was still **HUGGING HIS KNEES as he waited for Mycroft to begin.**

“Perhaps you will begin,” Mycroft said, “with as much detail as you feel is warranted. I will not press you for details unless you desire it.”

“You can ask questions,” Greg said, ignoring the flash he felt at the word _press_ and _desire_ falling so easily from Mycroft’s lips. He wasn’t entirely sure where to start. “I don’t know how much sense this is going to make.”

“Please, at your leisure,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded, pressing his palms to his thighs, straightening his legs. His knee cracked and he winced. “I went to this Sunday school,” he said. “And they had this big kind of…camp, I guess?” He took a deep breath. He hadn’t spoken about this for years. “Heaps of kids, families…they did a kind of baptism game?” Greg shrugged, feeling a frown tug at his face. “That’s not the right description. But they got some of us to walk into the ocean in our clothes and go under. They talked about rebirth, which I was sceptical about, but there was a bit about how small and insignificant you can sometimes feel, but everyone is important to God. I liked the part about how we were all connected to everything. The ocean, and the sand and…everything.”

Greg stopped, the memories overwhelming, unsure how Mycroft would react to him talking about religion.

“And this resonated with you,” Mycroft said, gently prompting.

“Yeah. The God stuff I could take or leave, that was more my parents’ thing, I guess. But when they did the immersion, it was overwhelming. In a good way. All I could concentrate on was the ocean, it was in every sense, and I felt…tiny. Unimportant. Part of the ocean, or it was part of me.” Greg shrugged, unable to look at Mycroft. It sounded so stupid, saying out loud. “And I needed to remember that today.”

“After the Thompson decision,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Yeah,” Greg choked out. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the rest of the words out. “It was too much, squeezing in on me. I needed something else, something to make myself disappear. I mean, not…” He blew out a breath, wondering how to explain. “I don’t mean I wanted to hurt myself. But what had happened at the beach that time, I needed that. I thought of the beach and I just… I had to go.” He sucked in another breath, using it to blurt the last, imperfect words before the sobs precluded more speech.

“I needed to remember how unimportant I am.”

The last word was barely done when Greg felt his chest heave, his knees drawing up automatically. His ears roared with air dragging into his lungs, blood rushing through his body, the pounding of his heart faster and harder than he could remember. He was too deep in it to even consider Mycroft; this grief he’d carried without realising the weight of it, without even recognising how threads from his life had tangled together into the singular belief at the core of his being. That this was the only way to cope with his life.

_I need to feel more insignificant._

_I want to disappear._

How did you even put that into words? As his sobs subsided, Greg became more aware of Mycroft in the space beside him and self-consciousness crept in. He opened his eyes, puffy and sore, to find a box of tissues on his bed.

“Thanks,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You said I could ask questions,” Mycroft said, and Greg was never more grateful that Mycroft finally used easy words.

He nodded, concentrating on his tissue.

“Do not feel obliged to answer,” Mycroft continued, “however perhaps this might be the time for me to…understand more fully.”

Greg nodded.

“Your first experience at the beach, you felt insignificant.”

It was a statement, but Greg was grateful he could answer without speaking. He nodded, confirming Mycroft’s words.

“And that was confirming?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Another nod.

“And today you were seeking the same confirmation,” Mycroft stated, still careful with his tone.

Greg nodded.

“Because of the Thompson decision,” Mycroft said.

Greg nodded.

“Is it…are you able to explain the connection?” Mycroft asked. “I am not sure I see it.”

Greg sat for a minute, wondering if he was able to explain. His brain pointed out that not only had Mycroft hesitated at the start of his question, but he’d admitted he didn’t see a connection.

_Unusual._

He cleared his throat, conscious of how rough his voice sounded. “We worked so hard on that case,” he whispered, addressing his words to his knees. “It was airtight. He killed three people. Three people, Mycroft, and he’ll be out…” Greg pulled in a deep breath, leaving the sentence unfinished. “All that work made no difference. It’s all still the same. I needed…the ocean. The big picture, the really big picture. Because it doesn’t matter there. _I_ don’t matter there, I’m such a small part of it.”

He stopped, having no idea if that made sense to Mycroft.

_Please understand._

“If I might paraphrase,” Mycroft said carefully, “you felt insignificant professionally, but needed to feel more insignificant so you came to the beach.”

“Kind of,” Greg said.

When there was no reply he turned his head, resting his cheek on his knees as he looked at Mycroft. When their eyes met, Mycroft raised one eyebrow. The move was so familiar Greg felt the corner of his mouth tug.

“Was there any other reason?” Mycroft asked. “That you felt that way.”

Greg frowned. Why was that question familiar? And the tone was wrong for a question, it sounded more like Mycroft was quoting something. “Are you actually asking?” he said.

“You don’t have to answer. I don’t mind.” Mycroft’s smile was slight as he studied Greg’s face. “I just wanted you to know that I know there’s more to it.”

Greg breathed out. Right. Mycroft was doing the same thing Greg had done earlier. Quoting him, actually.

“Since you asked,” Greg said, and his response clearly surprised Mycroft. Somehow that made it easier to unchain the words he never admitted to anyone. “I always feel insignificant.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted. “In the history of humankind?” he asked carefully.

“No,” Greg said calmly. “In my own life. Unimportant.” He shrugged. The admission was easier than he’d thought, the expected sharp pain absent. It felt freeing, and more words flowed freely. “It’s always there, but at work today…it was too much. I needed more, to make me forget. I remembered the ocean, how overwhelming it was.” He sighed. They were so deep in this now there was no point trying to keep anything to himself. He’d started this and now he would have to finish it. Show Mycroft exactly how small and powerless he really was. What a contrast, he thought, the first flash of despair streaking through him. “Apart from my boss, nobody in all of London would have noticed I was gone. Until rent was due.”

Mycroft’s face went still, his eyes boring into Greg. “I noticed,” he whispered, and there was more emotion in those words than Greg would have thought possible.

Greg returned his gaze. “You did,” he said quietly. They held each other’s eyes for a bit until Greg said suddenly, “I’d like to know why you followed me down here.”

Mycroft nodded, a tumble of emotions flashing across his face. “Reciprocity,” he murmured.

“No,” Greg said immediately before backtracking. “Well, kind of,” he replied. “But as much as you want to say.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Bear with me, as this is relevant,” he said. “My brother always advocated the quick, sharp removal of a plaster once its use was done. I had no strong feeling either way, though he often teased me when I did not follow his preferred method.”

Greg had no idea where Mycroft was going with this but there would be some kind of a link. He nodded, waiting for the explanation.

“In the interests of being succinct,” Mycroft said, pulling in a deep breath and closing his eyes, “I followed you here because I love you.”

Greg froze. “What?” he whispered.

Perhaps the same freedom overcame Mycroft once his admission was made, because he opened his eyes, looked right at Greg and said, “Had you boarded a plane as far as New Zealand, I would have followed you. To me you are more important than the stars themselves, Gregory.”

“You’re kidding,” Greg said. Something on his cheeks was wet; he raised one hand to realise tears were rolling, fat and heavy to drop from his jaw. “You’re…how long?”

“A significant period,” Mycroft admitted.

“And all this?” Greg asked, waving one hand weakly around the room. “You did all this because…really?”

“Please believe I am sincere,” Mycroft implored. “Your happiness is paramount, and hearing of your despair breaks my heart. I admit my devotion with no expectation, though if we are able to continue our cordial discussions I would be pleased to have your continuing company in any capacity.”

Greg had no idea how to process this, but it was clear Mycroft expected him to leave, or at the very least turn him down.

_In any capacity…_

“Mycroft,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to say I feel the same way, but…” he swallowed, watching as Mycroft’s face turned to him, the faintest spark of hope in his eyes, “I like you very much.”

“You do?” Mycroft asked, and Greg was fascinated that he was reassuring Mycroft. Since when had that been their dynamic? It stirred something deep in him. When was the last time someone had needed him? Not for a long time, but this moment reignited that desire. He wanted to be wanted. To be needed by someone.

_To be noticed._

_To be significant._

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He tried for a laugh, but it sounded all wrong. “I’m pretty broken, though, are you sure…”

He trailed off as Mycroft threw off his bedsheets, sliding to the floor on his knees next to Greg’s bed. He was taller than he should be; Greg remembered the pile of blankets he’d dropped there earlier. It meant Mycroft’s face was the same height as his, and he was close enough to rest one trembling hand on Greg’s face.

“No answer would be more certain,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay,” Greg said, hardly able to believe the position in which he found himself. Carefully, he raised his hand to cover Mycroft’s, pressing it to his cheek. “I have no idea how to do this,” he whispered. “Properly, I mean.”

“Whatever you need, it can be arranged,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Might need some time to process some things,” Greg told him. “This morning…wasn’t that good.”

Mycroft didn’t sneer at him or degrade his obvious understatement. His thumb traced the shape of Greg’s face, eyes soft. “I know some excellent people,” Mycroft replied. His mouth twitched as he added, “And we can buy a house at the beach.”

Greg smiled, disbelief and the tiniest bit of hope soaring through his veins. “This house?” he teased.

“If you wish,” Mycroft said immediately.

“Wait, seriously?” Greg said.

“If it is within my power,” Mycroft replied. He leaned closer. “And I can tell you in confidence, my power is considerable.”

“Oh, is it?” Greg said, his heart swelling at the gentle dynamic they were building. It was familiar, resonating with the exchanges they shared over Scotch on late nights. The extra thread whispered its fantastical shape around them, drawing Mycroft’s hand along Greg’s jawline. “Well this house is pretty amazing, but it’s huge.”

“Too big?” Mycroft asked with a smile.

“Maybe,” Greg replied, smiling.

“We’ll look together,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg nodded, and the gap between them closed as they both leaned forward. The kiss was soft and gentle, exactly as it would be at the start. Mycroft’s lips were confident, though, and Greg found himself drawn in deeper, entranced by the sensation. As they pressed together, long, slow kisses drawing their bodies closer, Greg let out a whine of frustration. He was exhausted, his body protesting the desire beginning to burn in his belly.

_We can’t sleep in separate beds. Not now._

“Is there a bigger bed in this house?” he murmured. Mycroft stiffened and Greg hastened to add, “I think we should sleep.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He pressed one last kiss to Greg’s mouth before releasing him and standing up from the pile of blankets. They collected their few things, Greg following Mycroft into a huge bedroom with a large bed.

“First door on the left?” Greg said with a grin. “This was your room, wasn’t it?”

“I did not want to impose,” Mycroft admitted. “I did not know your preferences.” He placed his things on one side of the bed, turning to face Greg, his body language awkward as he looked back at Greg, still standing in the doorway.

“Mycroft,” Greg said quietly, crossing the space to stand in front of him, “I think we should establish a few things.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened before settling seriously. “Of course,” he replied apprehensively.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Greg said. “And I think I’ll need some time to get my head right.”

Mycroft nodded.

“But I think…I think being connected to someone will help. And intimacy is important to me. Not just sex but affection. Little touches, you know? I’m pretty tactile, and I get it if you’re not, but just…” Greg blew out a breath. Jesus, it was hard putting this stuff into words. “It’s welcome,” he finished lamely. “If you want a hug or whatever.”

Mycroft nodded again, his shoulders relaxing at Greg’s honesty. “I too am inexperienced,” he said quietly. “And I have suppressed my desire to reach out for a long time.” He swallowed. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

Greg nodded, holding his arms out. “I’d quite like a hug before we turn in,” he said quietly.

Mycroft nodded, relief flooding his face as he stepped closer. His height advantage allowed Greg to tuck his face into Mycroft’s neck, lips resting on the collar of his pyjamas. He could feel Mycroft waiting for him to be settled before closing his arms around Greg’s back, hands wide and warm through the fabrics. It was restful and Greg finally felt sleep tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

_Finally._

When they eased apart, Greg’s whole body felt heavy with sleep. It wasn’t the same restless exhaustion as earlier; this was more of a readiness for sleep. His mind was calm and as he and Mycroft climbed in opposite sides of the bed without the awkwardness he expected. He wanted to move to the middle of the bed, so he did; watching as Mycroft turned off the light, allowing the moonlight to cast heavy shadows over them. Mycroft moved close, but Greg could tell he was still holding back, maybe unsure how Greg wanted them to arrange themselves.

“Don’t know how I’ll end up when I’m asleep,” Greg said quietly, settling down on his side facing Mycroft.

“Nor I,” Mycroft replied. “I am not accustomed to sleeping in the same bed as another.”

Greg could see the dark shape of Mycroft arranging itself opposite him. When the mattress stopped shifting he reached out, relieved when Mycroft’s fingers found his on the sheet between them. They curled around each other, the contact enough reassurance that it was not a dream as his mind finally sighed itself into repose.

“Good night,” Greg murmured.

“Good night,” Mycroft echoed, his voice slipping across the sheets to accompany Greg as he slipped into sleep.


End file.
